


this is, like, the opposite of kansas

by deltacrow



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Supernatural
Genre: AU: dropped into an AU, Supernatural AU - Freeform, Vague depictions of violence, canon-typical racism toward mutants, for once its not Gabriel's fault, literally everything will be updated, marvel AU, or Loki's for that matter, tagged as it goes along, universe-hopping shenanigans, you should see my notes because its literally how everyone interacts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 07:21:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2573030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deltacrow/pseuds/deltacrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"So," Dean said, rubbing the back of his head, "what kooky conspiracy brought us to a motel we hadn't paid for?"</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>"Honestly, so far no one's bothered us, so I really don't care," Sam responded, looking up from his laptop. "But no, really," and he ran a hand through his hair at that, "aliens. Aliens are a thing now."</i></p><p> </p><p>Dean, Sam, and Cas are dragged into the MCU by a (inwardly) panicky Stephen Strange for the Thing Threatening His Universe That Doesn't Seem To Die.<br/>Shenanigans ensue. So, so many shenanigans</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. the tornado touches down in bumfuck, nowhere; also, there are no red shoes anywhere, how are we supposed to get home?

**Author's Note:**

> EDIT: Now with 300% more Cas, 180% better writing, and basically half-way rewritten! It's better now. Sorry, one guest that kudos'd, you'll have to reread this to see if you like it better.
> 
> This is dedicated to my roommate, Liz, who somehow hasn't hit me in the face with her flailing limbs. You need so, _so_ much calming tea, man. Also, this is, in fact, all your fault. Don't front, kid. You and your Supernatural marathon is what got me into this mess. You're helping me crawl my way out, too, bub.

Dean wakes up to cold water dumped on his face. This is less of a new routine than he liked to believe. There is also a single, sharp pain near his forearm-- the silver knife probably-- and a dull one in his head-- how much had he had to _drink_ last night, because he doesn’t even _remember_ the bar. He opened his eyes to Sam, who dunked some holy water on his head and sliced his forearm with the demon knife.

 

"So, Dean, get this."

 

He was not in the same room as he was the night before. Sunlight came in through _that_ window last evening, and unless he was mistaken, that weird blurry painting wasn't there before. He should know, because he would have made a crack about someone needing glasses for the umpteenth time when painting sigils onto the wall behind it.

 

“I assume you’ve got it,” Sam said drolly, assessing the look on Dean’s face.

 

And Sammy looked like _shit_. Hell, when did he wake up? Did he get any sleep?

 

Dean lifted his hands over his head to stretch-- okay, that’s weird, he’d never gotten kidnapped and not been restrained before. So far, less bad. Judging from the position of the sun, and the clock on the wall, it might be about 10 in this morning-- that. That was also weird, because he doesn’t sleep in unless he’s had a good lay, and there’d been a dry spell lately after… Well. After them.

 

Sam dragged a chair over to the foot of Dean’s bed, laptop in hand.There were no painted sigils on the wall, sending Dean into something of a panic-- the tiniest, most inward panic ever, he _swears--_  before realizing that there were papers with devils traps pinned to the ceiling above their heads with one of the three or four knives that they never felt comfortable without. He blinked; yes, there was one that encompassed the entire room made with what must have been the rest of their never-ending chalk supply. (Dean’s not sure how many paint pens and chalk the two of them have or manage to collect-- it’s like some people and receipts, and how they just seem to multiply-- but, unlike receipts, an excess of chalk has actually saved their lives.)

 

There was still a stick of chalk in his jacket pocket-- the jacket was on the edge of his bed, where he threw it last night in the hotel they-- or, rather, Philip and Richard Nuñez, one of their new aliases-- paid for last night. He tossed it between his hands and made a beeline for the door, until he realized that Sam had painstakingly spread the shampoo samples into thin lines on the door, composing a drying and non-flammable angel warding on the door.

 

Sam had been busy. Dean felt like an ass now for somehow sleeping in.

 

"So," Dean said, rubbing the back of his head, "what kooky conspiracy brought us to a motel we haven't paid for?"

 

"Honestly, so far no one's bothered us, so I really don't care," Sam responded, looking up from his laptop. "But Dean, check this out," he said, running a hand through his hair. "Aliens. According to the _New York Times_ , aliens used _other aliens_ to try to take over the world. _Another alien_ stopped the hostile takeover."

 

"Can you phrase that in English, please?"

 

Sam, in all his lanky, awkward glory, stared Dean down with a face that expressed exasperation with their reality in general.

 

"So. _Aliens,_ " Sam repeated, turning his laptop to face Dean. "Apparently they’re real now." An internet article from the Times, dated 3 days ago announced-- that was a lot of cash going into _rebuilding_ New York City. What the _actual hell_ happened there?

 

Dean took a look at the second tab showing a still of what looked to him like a bunch of Alien rejects, and tabs over to a video of-- Oh. Wow. That is certainly a wormhole over New York City. Shaky film-work-- a camera phone-- but. Wow. there are a lot of things coming out of that hole... oh. Oh, _gross,_ there’s blood on the camera now. Were he a lesser man, that could have made him sick.

 

"I don't remember aliens happening three days ago. My gut tells me there's more to worry about. Or I'm hungry.” Sam made a face, maybe two parts _you should be ashamed_ and, like, half a part _I know, right? Made me want lunch._ “Did this alternate reality come with food?" Sam nods, the action completely at odds with his face.

 

Dean stretched, padded out to the kitchenette, and felt a dorky dance coming on as he found an orange juice carton and a bag of apples in the fridge. He stuck his head in the fridge, moving around the food he saw. “Is there anything else I should know about this weird-ass reality?” Oh, score, a six-pack. A weird, fancy microbrew, but probably enough alcohol to help him drink away the weird for, like a day. This was, in fact, enough to dance for, but only enough to warrant a finger waggle or two. Sam’s still in the room, after all.

 

"Well," Sam began mildly. Dean figured, with that tone of voice, whatever he had to say couldn't be too bad. He grabbed the carton of orange juice and started drinking from the carton when Sam threw out a casual, "The existence of magic and gods are common knowledge."

 

Dean spit his mouthful of juice on the floor.

 

"You _timed_ that, you bastard!"

 

Sam shrugged. "Gotta get my kicks somehow."

 

\--- ---

 

Not even fifteen minutes passed, and Sam had opened maybe eight new tabs open on his laptop, and was clicking through them at a rapid-fire pace. Dean, in a fit of pique, was crunching an apple over Sam’s shoulder.

 

"So Loki... Loki happened," Dean said in disbelief. Flecks of apple spit landed on the screen.

 

"To be fair, so did Thor," Sam pointed out with a shrug, indignantly brushing away the apple bits from his screen. There was an open tab from a place called Stark Industries, that provided stills of security footage during the attack. Apparently this Loki- wannabe just... magic’d up a portal to space on some rich dude’s rooftop. (This company's worried about the politics of magic users hijacking their shit. Dean smiled and thought, _honey, gods don’t give a shit about your problems._ )

 

"But like-- _Loki_ Loki? Not Gabriel Loki?"

 

"Well, I'd like to assume that Gabriel wouldn't try wiping out humanity like _that,_ ” Sam replied, gesturing vaguely towards the screen.  “And besides, we both know what happened to him."

 

Dean chewed thoughtfully. “Actually, his whole ‘swan song’ shtick he gave us was just a video. He’s lied a lot more with a lot less. But it’s not like he didn't try to kick-start the Final Battle, right, Sam?"

 

"Right. _Dammit,_ I forgot about TV-Land!”

 

Dean sighed, and stared into his palms. "How did we even get here," he said to them. The palms had no answers for him, which was a shame. Neither did Sam, which was a _damn_ shame. “At least TV-Land was straight-forward.”

 

The two of them had not been inclined to leave the motel so far. For one, this could all be an elaborate trap that was just waiting to be triggered by, say, leaving haphazardly. They were in no condition to do much of anything at this point-- staying put was the only option. Odds were they had no car and no supplies, not to mention they still had no idea where exactly they were. Most of their things were in the Impala, and the thought of losing that much for however long, maybe even permanently, was very distressing. But so was dying gruesomely, and they couldn’t yet judge how dangerous going outside was. Dean meandered to the window-- _maybe Baby’s parked nearby?_ Dammit, the car wasn’t even in sight...

 

Dean suddenly got a phone call, which changed about everything.

 

“Dean, where are you?”

 

“Cas! We’re... we’re, uh...” Dean hesitated, realizing that they hadn’t worked on figuring out their location at all so far. “Yeah, we’re working on that.” He hunted down a pad of paper, hoping to find one of those personalized ones, where it conveniently listed where you were in case you needed to write a Yelp review from bed. _3/5 stars_ , his would read. _Comfortable, no extra billables for inscribing sigils, no questions asked. Did not care for the dimension hopping, however._

 

“Sam, you seen one of those pad things? The ones with the motel address-- yeah, that’s it!” he fumbled the catch, and crouched to pick it up.

 

“No address on there,” Sam called, already turning back to the internet. “Working on that.”

 

There’s the name of this classy establishment-- Elmwood. _How pretentious; you’re a roach motel._

 

“I’m outside of an Elmwood Motel.” Cas threw in. “I also happen to be locked in your car.”

 

“That-- that happens to be the name of the motel we are in, _Christ,_ do not move!” Dean bolted outside, completely disregarding the first reason to not leave.  He could hear a gravely voice in his ear, telling him that “I do not happen to be named after Jesus of Nazareth; we’ve been over this before. Oh, there you are.”

 

Accepting his inevitable fate, Sam followed Dean out the door.

 

\--- ---

 

“No, Cas-- do-- no, stop, _stop_ that! Let me unlock your door for you!”

 

Sam stood off to the side trying to smother his laughter as Dean unlocked the driver’s side door and crawled into the seat, twisting around to get a good look at the back seat lock next to Cas. They were bickering and-- Sam was no saint. _No wonder everyone thinks they’re boning. They act like an old married couple whenever they aren’t getting uncomfortably close to each other._ So he snickered a little bit; sue him. (Please, sue him; he hasn’t exercised his lawyer muscles in a while, and he ruled Moot Court in Pre-Law.)

 

The two of them emerge from the Impala unscathed in all but pride. This did not help stifle his laughter, because if Cas had feathers outside of the metaphysical they would be _so_ ruffled right now.

 

“Cas, do you know why we’re here? Because if this is another angel-made field trip, I’m out of here,” Dean asserted. “They can shove their gung-ho attitude up their asses.”

 

Cas looked affronted. “No, it’s nothing “gung-ho,” at least to my knowledge. I would have assumed whoever called you to this universe would have greeted you directly.”

 

The Winchesters looked to each other, and Dean remarked, “Yeah, huh, _that_ never happened.”

 

Cas nodded, like this is the answer he expected. “You two can initially be very off-putting, you know.” He looked towards Sam-- whose initial reaction was confusion, and shrug, and _why are you looking at me, I know less than I want to right now._ That’s a development Sam was becoming accustomed to feeling.

 

“Let’s go back inside,” Sam suggested. “Regroup in private.”

 

They trudged their wares back to the door, Sam leading the way back. Dean fumbled for his key-- "wow, this is convenient," he remarked, "a key for a room we _didn't_ rent, in my goddamn pocket."-- and the door creaked open and clattered shut behind Cas, who was surreptitiously taking up the rear.

 

"I call this meeting of the Magically Lost, Winchester chapter, to order," Dean said gravely, banging his fist on the plastic tabletop. "Our first item of the day--"

 

"I didn't pull this up," Sam cut in.

 

"Sam, why would you-- wait, what?"

 

"Dean, why would you Google Maps a bodega in Greenwich Village?"

 

"I would do no such thing," Dean replied, affronted. "Good convenience stores must be found and experienced. Besides, why would we head to New York?”

 

"Cas was in the car then. You had the key--"

 

"Which was transmogrified."

 

"--and I," Sam patted his pockets, "do not have mine. What the hell."

 

Cas meandered to the nightstand, and opened the drawer. Underneath a silver knife sat a key and a sheet of the motel’s personalized notepaper. _Dean Winchester, I require your assistance,_ it read. _Please arrive in four days' time with your connections at 6:30 PM. The address has been provided._ There was an illegible scrawl at the bottom might have been a signature. Cas held both the key and the note out to Dean, inquiring, "Should item two be the call to help or the trans-dimensional teleportation?"

 

“Connections? What ‘connections’ is this asswipe talking about?” Dean demanded, swiping the note from Cas. “We’re in a new goddamn _universe_ , what’s tethering me here?”

 

Sam threw a pen at his face, answering, “Us, you idiot. We got dragged here with you, so we’re the connections. He’s being a jackass and meaning me and Cas.” Dean balled up and threw the note at Sam, who deflected it deftly. “But back to the real question-- how the hell did we get here?”

 

Cas shook his head, and Dean, resigned, just replied, “Friggin’ _magic_ and shit, man, I don’t know.”

 

\--- ---


	2. shenanigans ensue (shouldn’t this road be yellow? and have bricks?)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> road trips are not complete without diner food, campfires, and hitchhikers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: allusions to canon-typical gore, references made to canon-typical discrimination of a simulacrum to the lgbtqia+ community, vague descriptions of canon-typical violence.

\--- ---

 

Dean waited in the car, watching Sam huff out of the check-in counter, Cas in tow. “What happened in there? You look like someone shit in your corn flakes.” Dean paused, and asked, “did we have to pay extra for the circles?”

 

“He had our names,” Sam replied uneasily, buckling himself into the passenger’s seat. Cas clambered into the back seat, buckling himself in as well, eyes out the window. "Like, our actual names."

 

“Well, fuck.” Dean peeled out of the parking lot, hung a right, and headed down I-40 East.

 

\--- ---

 

Seven hours pass. Dean was still chugging along, grateful for the McDonald's dollar-menu coffee and Cas’ foresight on the matter. The car ride had been quiet: Cas had stolen one of Dean’s Vonnegut novels from under the seat, and was flipping through yellowed and dog-eared pages; Sam had been alternating between napping and fiddling with his iPod.The car radio was set to a local station, so they could monitor any reports of heinous derring-do that was publicly associated with the Winchester name.

 

“I’m really not liking this,” Dean announced, and hour later, when the announcer cheerfully recited the four-day weather forecast. “The motel had information on _wanted criminals_. We are part of the _criminal element._ I have heard my _license plate number_ recited by random-ass people from the boonies.” He checked the mirror again, adjusted it. “Why aren’t our asses lit up with cop cars?”

 

Cas sniffed, placing Cat’s Cradle on the seat next to his. “I’d advise us not to look at this opportunity with... much suspicion.”

 

“You’re batshit if you think I’m not gonna look at this like we’re in Twilight Zone--”

 

Sam snorted “aren’t we always?” before turning and leaning towards the window.

 

“Batshit or in Twilight Zone?”

 

“Latter. But you’re normally nuts anyway--”

 

“Can it, nerd.” Dean swatted at his brother, eyes still on the road, before peeling up towards the mirror again. “This could be an illusion, or a... a weird, Trickster fuck-up.” He signaled for a lane change and turned on the windshield wiper fluid before looking back to Cas. “Couldn’t you just, I dunno, mojo us out of here?”

 

“I can’t. My grace isn’t replenishing as quickly as it should." Cas folded his arms over his chest, and leaned back into the seat. Dean lifted an eyebrow in response, but it went unnoticed. Cas took a deep breath, shifted uneasily, and sighed, “I’m not... entirely sure how to explain it. We-- angels can, within limits, regain grace. As long as we’re connected to the Host, _most_ , if not all, grace we use can be replaced.”

 

“So you’re a holy solar battery?”

 

“That’s not-- I-- I, yes, I suppose.”

 

\--- ---

 

Sam worked a crick out of his neck as Dean pulled into a diner somewhere around Nashville, Tennessee. A table for three men is a little weird, especially since none of them look immediately related, but Sam supposed that the waitress noticed Dean’s weird look of “twitchy” and “about to fall asleep in a plate of home fries”. Sam could taste late nights of cramming and Monster energy drinks in the back of his throat every time Dean jerked his head up from his cup of coffee.

 

“This is weird,” Dean complained. “I’ve driven, like, _30_ hours before and never felt this sore. What even _gives_.” He laid his face down on the table and sighed at the cool laminate tabletop.

 

“Go. Nap,” Sam said, ruffling Dean’s hair. “Your neck will hate you, and maybe your brain and dignity will too, but rest assured that I’ll only make fun of you for this when we get home.”

 

Dean groaned, and flipped Sam the bird in weary salute without lifting his face from the table. Cas ignored them both with practiced grace, and flipped through his menu before closing it and leaning back in the booth. The place seemed oddly empty to Sam.

 

“This is normally prime-time for a diner, right?”

 

“Sam, I don’t think I can count my fingers right now, what makes you think I can tell time?”

 

“Oh, shut up. I mean, it’s pretty empty for seven PM at a roadside diner. I wonder why,” Sam finished, right as right as their waitress, Pearl, came back with coffee refills.

 

“Are you boys passing through?” she asked. “Because you’d know, otherwise.” At Sam’s nod (Dean’s nodding off, and Cas isn’t too far behind), the waitress clucked matronly and shook her head. “Y’best be off and outta town quickly.” She leaned in closer, stage-whispering, “the Bug Jar’s got a breakout-- they say he blew up a school in Jersey-- and there’ve been a lotta weird shit happening lately.”

 

Sam nodded like he understood what “the Bug Jar” even meant. It sounds like a terrible carnival attraction, to be frank, but that can’t be right. The whole thing doesn’t sound pleasant, especially if they're "missing" from somewhere so unpleasant-sounding and it sounded like their kind of job, but they are kind of on a deadline.

 

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Sam replied, blowing on his coffee before taking a cautious sip. “But we’re only stopping for food.”

 

Pearl nodded sagely. “You boys ready to order?” Sam grunted, and they gave her their orders and menus before she bustled away from the table. Then, and only then, did Sam allow himself to be concerned. “Dean, you sure you’re okay to drive? You look dead on your feet.”

 

Dean lifted a hand lazily and waved away Sam’s concern. “Trust me, I’ve been dead on my feet before--”

 

“I know, I was there, it was terrible--”

 

“--and this is not nearly as bad.” Dean propped his face up in his hands. “It just feels like-- well, like I’ve been driving 20 hours with a head cold.” Dean made a face. “Sam, I’ll be _fine._ This is nothing. Gimme some pancakes and bacon and I’ll be good to go.”

 

Sam made his own face, forlorn, until his Caesar salad arrives, silently promising to haunt Dean in the _worst way_ if he drives them into a ditch. "You're going to die from a heart attack if you keep eating like that."

 

Cas picks at Sam's lettuce and remarks, "heart problems seem to be the least of your worries," as Dean steals a sip from Sam's coffee and mocks, "you're gonna die from the stick up your ass if you keep acting like that."

 

Sam wonders why he cares about these assholes anymore.

 

\--- ---

 

Getting out of the diner was a fucking cakewalk. Getting out of town, they found, as Dean swung back onto the highway, was less so, mostly because of the _literal pitchfork mob_. They’d actually, among the myriad of shotguns and hunting rifles, had pitchforks and long pole saws-- nasty, curved and serrated blades on big-ass sticks, that mostly make people look like a love child of the Grim Reaper and a lumberjack when they pick one up.

 

Dean plastered on his best “charmer” smile and rolled down the windows when they crawled forward. “What’s up with the road block?”

 

The man closest to the window leaned in, piggy-eyed and looking like he swallowed a lime whole. “Anno’er person went missin’, an’ we can’t find that mutie fucker anywhere. You see it anywhere?”

 

“Can’t... say we have,” Dean replied uncertainly. That waitress lady said something about weird shit, and someone escaping from some jar thing. Is “mutie” some sort of monster? It’s a little too early for a rougarou to start craving flesh, though, and honestly, this seemed like something that can blend in with people. Ugh, and they have a _deadline_ to meet. “What makes you think this... this kid’s been kidnapping people?”

 

“A’cos we all want him fuckin’ _dead_? Muties are fuckin’ demon spawn, ‘course he’s gonna thin out our numbers.” The man checked the ammo in his hunting rifle, and looked back at the three of them like they were idiots. “Y’never seen those Brotherhood fucks go at it?”

 

“And those X-Men? Thinkin’ they protect people?” a man near him, long pole saw leaning casually against his chest, hollered to the car. “Reckon they’re waiting until they got enough fuckers on their side before we’re all done for. Not if we can help it!”

 

“You find any of the victims?” Sam piped up. It sounded like the pitchfork mob was hoping for a monster angle, which was unnerving.

 

The long pole guy loped toward the car, and leaned into the car window. “Sheriff’s office found _bones_. Clean picked, most of ‘em, but-- and here’s where it’s freaky-- there were _teeth marks everywhere_.”

 

Aaaand that’s their cue. “Out of-- morbid-- curiosity, you guys have any... mines, or caves, maybe?”

 

The two of them scratched their heads, and Cas just leaned in and demanded a road map or a smartphone. Between the five of them, Sam’s laptop, and someone’s state map, they found out that, yes, there is, in fact, a cave system a few miles north of here that is, coincidentally, prime nesting ground for what seems to be a wendigo. Hopefully.

 

\--- ---

 

“It is pretty far south for them, let’s be real,” Sam said as Dean battled with traffic. “I mean, it _could_ be a rougarou. Or a werewolf.”

 

“Bones picked clean? Please. Werewolves leave something behind. Besides, rougarous would have escalated by now, and a kid is a little young for it. Assuming he’d be our rougarou.”

 

“There... is a precedence,” Cas suggested. “For both rougarous in the South and for younger rougarous. Neither are outside the realm of possibility. And we need to chase down this lead, if only to guarantee safe passage.”

 

Sam sighed into his hands. It sucked, because he wants this kid to not be an untamable monster. Y’know, for his sake.

 

Half an hour out of their way brought them to the Bell Witch Cave. Dean poked his head into the door of a renovated farmhouse and scoffed. “Public tours, bah; you wanna be underground? You grab a shovel and dig your own grave.”

 

Cas trotted over with a flamethrower and two crossbows. Dean cackled and checked the fuel levels on the flamethrower, while Cas and Sam checked on the firing mechanisms and the bolt heads of their weapons. They reached the mouth of the cave, which had been closed off "for maintenance" when the smell of decay hit them like a heatwave. Dean held out a hand, and Sam rolled his eyes before fishing a quarter out of his pocket and passing it along to his brother. A collective breath was drawn before they plunged into the murky cave. From then on, it's a simple matter of following the sounds of slaughter and the stench of rotting flesh, before lighting the twelve-foot monster on fire until it's nothing but ash.

 

\--- ---

 

With long hunts, or the ones where gods and angels get involved (and Dean wonders when gods and angels became a qualifier for weird; and then remembers that Sam was a civilian a few years ago), a lot of their detective work becomes less “what” and more “where”, as in “everyone and everything we think is going to be wrong anyway, let’s just find a decent place for a suspect to hide light everything there on fire until the problem goes away”.

 

They were pleasantly surprised to find out that the problem is _actually_ an out-of-place wendigo, and killing it proves significantly easier this way. Wendigos are very much a cold-weather monster, so it never went out except at night; with a town plagued by fear over something else, the wendigo had to rely on the over-confident or stumbling-drunk to show their face in the evening.

 

They didn’t expect, after everything's said and done and in piles of smoking ash on the cave floor, to find a blur solidify in front of them, and collapse into a gaunt, white-haired teenager. "I will do anything you say, as long as I can eat my weight in food and _leave this cave,_ " the kid, leaning against a cave wall, pleaded. Cas lead the kid out of the cave, murmuring platitudes and rubbing his back (his vibrating back, Jesus). Sam and Dean shared a glance, shrugging at each other.

 

“I’m not sure if demon-spawn is absurd or actually in the realm of possibility,” Sam admitted.

 

“You think his hair is dyed? I’ve never seen white that natural on anyone under 80.”

 

Cas, coatless and replacing his crossbow into the trunk of the Impala, nods to the teen slumped in the backseat. A familiar coat is draped over him like a blanket, white hair peeking out from under the collar. "He's... probably not a monster," Cas grunts, slamming the trunk.

 

"Don't slam the doors," Dean calls reflexively. "Why do you say that? He seems at least a little weird. Like, our brand of weird."

 

"There's some sort of magic clinging to him," Cas allows. "But more residual than anything. I'm not sure how he survived being in close proximity with a wendigo, though."

 

"You think our host will have any ideas?"

 

Sam shrugs and cracks his neck. "We've had worse ideas than this."

 

\--- ---

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry! it's been a while since i've been able to look at this doc and figure out what i wanted to do with this.

**Author's Note:**

> the article the Sam pulled up is a beautiful post by the blog MediAvengers-- there's a copy on DeviantArt, too, here:  
> http://nottonyharrison.deviantart.com/art/Stark-Industries-chairman-ceo-announce-2-5bn-363932880
> 
> Please don't hate on the last portion's characterization, because Liz was busy and can't always find time to proofread for me. It's a tough road, and she's a champ, for all that I reblog things that will make her cry and harass her during her work time and her downtime. (Also, Cas is super hard to write for. Feedback on that would be appreciated _so_ hard.) Incidentally, she stopped watching Supernatural every so often to discuss things with me, and in between making sad headcanons for her and listening intently to her feelings, this happened. Congrats, Liz. Again, this is your fault.  
>  Also, I did Google Maps the Sanctum Sanctorum. it is indeed a convenience store. Maybe even Stephen Strange has fallen on hard times in this economy. Although when I first looked it up, I found that it was a frozen yogurt place, and that made for a better exchange:
> 
> "Dean, why did you look up a frozen yogurt joint in Greenwich Village?"  
> "I would do no such thing," Dean replied, affronted. "Frozen yogurt is a cheap knockoff of the ice cream experience."


End file.
